Chapter Eleven
Perry’s carriage seemed sombre and silent once Grace had gone. Her fragrance lingered though, something light and floral mixed with the scent of woman.
He frowned, trying to understand why he was alone, and why the woman with whom he’d spent some highly erotic and passionate hours had walked away from him with nary a backward glance.
Had she not felt anything at all? That was absurd. He had held her body as she exploded, and he would bet his last groat that she’d not pretended any of her pleasures.
Perhaps she had simply used him? She was tight; so tight he knew she’d not taken lovers lightly or often, if at all. It would not surprise him to learn he was the first since her husband died.
But no, that approach brought him around to her own self-perception—those damned scars of hers.
He could not imagine what she had suffered, the attack and the consequent horror of her husband’s suicide right in front of her.
Being an intelligent and well-read man, he was fairly confident that she would have tried to blame herself for everything, and perhaps even believed her scars might have been well-deserved. Horribly wrong thinking, but understandable. Her self-imposed seclusion of so many years had contributed to her introspective manner, and he could only be glad that Kitty Ridlington had come along to upend the Seton-Mowbray household and encourage Grace back into the edges of Society, at least.
The arrival of the carriage at his own front door interrupted Perry’s cogitations, and he walked in, thankful to find Morris, efficient as always, waiting for him in the hall.
“Welcome home, Sir Peregrine.” He bowed and helped his master remove his travelling garments. “A productive trip one hopes?”
“In a way,” muttered Perry, stripping off his gloves.
“There was some concern about your person after the ice storm began, but we were reassured that your native intellect would keep you safe and sound.”
Perry raised an eyebrow. “My native intellect?”
“Your natural brilliance, sir.”
“Ah. I see.” Somewhat embarrassed by the encomium, Perry gave a small shrug and then walked into the parlour. A fine fire warmed the room, there was a table by his favourite chair designed for the tea tray Cook was doubtless putting together at this very moment, and his books—his beloved books—were exactly where he left them.
“Tea is on the way, sir, along with your favourite scones. Cook felt that after such a trip you would be what she calls amite peckish?”
Perry paused. He looked around once more at his home, the place where he’d spent so much time in the last few years. It had made him…content.
Awareness crept up his spine with a clawing chill.
Yes, it had made him content, but it hadn’t made him happy.Gracehad made him happy.
“I’ll take the tea, Morris, but upstairs in my chamber. I need to bathe and change. And while I’m doing that, can you arrange for a horse? I’ll be going back out immediately, and since the weather’s cleared, I won’t need a carriage.
“But…but you only returned a moment ago, sir.”
“I know.” He beamed at the man as he hurried past him and into the hall. “But I just realised that I forgot something.”
And within the hour, a cleaned, refreshed, determined Sir Peregrine—fortified by several excellent hot buttered scones—dashed from the house, mumbling something about Christmas around the last mouthful.
“And happy Christmas to you too, sir,” answered Morris, guessing at the sentiments.
Watching the master almost leap onto the back of his horse in his hurry to leave, Morris shook his head and closed the front door. “There’s a woman behind this,” he muttered. “Mark my words. A woman.”
*~~*~~*
Grace welcomed the sight of her own front door as her carriage pulled up and lurched to a halt.
“Here we are then, Ma’am.” Michael, the postilion, was already at the door and opening it to lower the steps.
“Thank you, Michael,” she smiled. “Are you still liking your schooling?”
“Oh very much, Ma’am,” he nodded enthusiastically and helped her to the ground. “When Mr. Walker allows me to take the reins—well it’s beyond wonderful.”
